


Unjust

by Corbie



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Drama, M/M, Masturbation, POV First Person, Possession
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-05
Updated: 2011-11-11
Packaged: 2017-10-22 06:28:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 13,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/234910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corbie/pseuds/Corbie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a companion piece to "The Spaces in Between," told from Justice's POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Innocence

The battlements of Vigil’s Keep are serene and silent even when activity bustles in the courtyard below. Only the occasional patrolling guard disturbs the peaceful setting, and none of them ever look directly at me. Their fear is foolish and unfounded, but it does not trouble me overmuch. I have come to understand that the corpse I inhabit is something that most mortals find disturbing, as dead things usually only move and speak when dark magic has been invoked.

Shortly after coming here, I attempted to explain to one of them that my circumstances are different. He agreed hastily, and yet he has avoided me ever since. I am at a loss to understand why.

But this does not matter. I stand and feel the night breeze, and listen to the song coming from the lyrium ring that Solona has given me. And I hope that perhaps I will not stand here alone for too long, because there is one other who finds these battlements a refuge.

The door behind me opens and familiar footsteps cross the hard stone. It’s a strange thing, that mortals can be distinguished by their gait. I would have thought they would all do something as basic as walking in the same way. But they do not: some shuffle slowly, some mince, some dash, and some—like Solona—stride. The variety is somehow a part of the strange beauty of this world.

“Good evening, Justice,” Solona says as she joins me. She leans against the crenelations and stares out over the courtyard, over the outermost walls, into the blue distance. The wind stirs her fiery hair, cut to a length just above her shoulders and interspersed with braids.

Kristoff’s memories do not tell me that she is beautiful. They say rather that she is plain, her nose too prominent and her chin too strong. But she is pleasing to me, perhaps because I do not see her body, but rather her kindness, her strength. Her sense of justice.

“Good evening, Solona,” I reply, because that is the way of mortals, to greet one another so. “Thank you again for the gift.” I have never received a gift before, so this is yet another of those odd, unexpected delights of the mortal world.

“I’m glad you like it,” she says with a smile. She is the only one who ever smiles at me, I realize. The only one who seeks out my company. Without her kindness, my transition to this world would have been far more difficult, my homesickness for the Fade far greater.

I remember something Sigrun said earlier. “I thought you were going to play cards tonight, with the others.”

I do not play cards. The drinking of alcohol is involved, and even though I have the memory of such from Kristoff, this body I inhabit has no life, cannot eat or drink. It feels…awkward, that is the word, to sit by like a statue while the living Grey Wardens indulge. I am coming to suspect that my presence causes them to feel awkward at such times as well.

“I left when Sigrun suggested strip diamondback,” Solona says ruefully. “No reason to torment myself, after all.”

“I do not understand.”

She laughs, then, but it is aimed at herself, not at me. “I got a letter from Alistair today,” she says nonsensically.

“The Grey Warden who was with you when you defeated the Blight?” Her lover, or so Oghren once said, trying to get me to react for reasons I cannot fathom.

I understand the word, of course. Kristoff was married, knew other women before Aura. _Lover_ is warmth and pleasantness and closeness. I cannot comprehend why such things cause Oghren to leer so, or why mortals seem to spend so much time and energy seeking out such experiences. There are many other pleasant things in the world, after all.

Solona nods. “Yes. He was supposed to go to Highever, to make a memorial for Duncan—the old Warden Commander, who conscripted me—before joining me here. So today, I received a letter that reads: ‘Hello, my love, I hope things are going well. I seem to have gotten a little lost on the way, but fortunately these Antivans are very friendly!’”

She grimaces. “I don’t know how familiar you are with Thedas geography, but Antiva is in no way, shape, or form on the way to Highever. So here I sit, with Alistair hopelessly lost, wondering if he’ll even make it back to Ferelden before next year, let alone join me here. And in the meantime, Sigrun wants me to play strip diamondback with Nathaniel and Anders. There’s only so much frustration a woman can take in one night.”

“I do not understand,” I say again, feeling slow and stupid. “That is, I do not understand what Nathaniel or Anders have to do with anything.”

“Ah. Well, let me just say that they’re both very, very attractive, and that I’m absolute certain Anders would sleep with me in a heartbeat. And I’m not as sure as I’d like to be that Nathaniel wouldn’t.”

I try to make sense of this information. Nathaniel is a seeker of justice in his own way; he believed his father wrongly slain, and wished to avenge him. He has also suggested I find a willing host to possess, a notion which disturbs me in its unfamiliarity. Anders is a mage who wishes to avoid his obligations toward his fellows. Having achieved his own freedom, he cares nothing for their slavery.

None of those facts seem relevant, however. “You would…break your vows to your lover?” I ask, remembering Keenan’s wife, Nida. “That seems a great injustice.”

“No!” Solona shakes her head firmly. “I would never sleep around behind Alistair’s back. It’s just that…when I was in the Circle, sex was…well, it was partly a way to defy the Chantry, and partly a way to get rid of the tension of living day after day as a prisoner with no hope of reprieve. And partly a way to just get some pleasure out of life, when we had so few opportunities to do so. It was about everything _but_ love.” She seems sad for a moment, then shakes her head and smiles. “One time, I caught Anders with Finn and Neria Surana…and, never mind, I probably shouldn’t tell that story to anyone who wasn’t personally involved. I guess I just mean that it feels odd to deny myself the company of two handsome men. I feel like I _should_ be tempted…but talking to you now, I realize I’m not.”

Her words soothe me; I might not understand the finer details, but I grasp that she does not wish to commit this injustice. I should never have doubted her. “That is good, then.”

“Yes.” She turns to me, and I suddenly understand what mortals mean when they speak of a bright smile. I feel blinded, almost, at what I see in her.

I realize then that I recognize this warm feeling she evokes in me, because it echoes what I feel when I look at Aura. Do I love Solona? It seems much the same.

It is a pleasant, warm emotion. I understand why mortals seek it out. This Alistair is very fortunate indeed. When he finally makes his way to Vigil’s Keep, I will have to remember to congratulate him. That seems like something mortals would do with one another.

“Thank you, Justice,” she says. “I appreciate your patience in hearing me out. You’ve helped me a great deal.”

“Have I?” It pleases me to think so.

“Yes. You listen, and you don’t nag, or spout Chantry propaganda, or pretend to understand what it’s like to be a Grey Warden, even though you have no idea.”

“Kristoff was a Grey Warden. Am I not one also?”

“Of course.” She passes her hand across her eyes. “Sorry. Just thinking about Wynne—and how damned glad I am that you’re here, and she’s not.”

“This Wynne is a mage, yes? The one who accompanied you to stop the Blight?”

“That’s right.” A speculative look enters her eyes. “Actually, there is something you might find interesting about her. She was possessed—but not by a demon.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

She tells me, as we stand together on the battlements of the Vigil. And, true, what she speaks of is some weak spirit of Faith, nothing at all like myself…but it gives me unexpected hope. Perhaps Nathaniel is right, and I am not doomed to remain with Kristoff’s fading corpse after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Solona didn't hate Wynne, but they didn't get along very well. Especially when Wynne started spouting off about what it meant to be a Grey Warden, considering that presumably Wynne only knew stories, whereas Solona, you, know, _actually was one_.
> 
> Justice really doesn't have a clue at this point. But he thinks he does, which is dangerous.


	2. Sundown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solona is gone, and Justice makes a fateful decision.

Solona is gone.

The First Warden called her away; why, I do not know. I do not care. My friend is gone, and I feel her loss all the way to my bones. Even the sun seems less warm, the air less sweet, although perhaps that is in part due to the steady erosion of the corpse I inhabit. At least I still have the beautiful lyrium ring she gave me; I spend the nights alone on the battlement listening to it sing, reveling in its beauty.

But the world is now askew. Solona is gone, and the man they have put in her place is…different. Even a few conversations with him demonstrate that he does not understand justice.

He makes Nathaniel feel like an outsider in what had been his ancestral home, something Solona had never done. He forces Anders to give up the cat who was a gift from Solona; fortunately, Delilah Howe takes in the creature. He makes Oghren give up his drink—an improvement, one would think, except that the harshness of his methods feels wrong to me. He drives Velanna and Sigrun away; Velanna to some unknown fate, and Sigrun to the Deep Roads to die fighting.

Me…he watches. Afraid, I think, yet intrigued. He knows that I represent power, but is not certain he can control me.

I do not like him.

And then the templar comes, and I like that even less.

I spend more time with Anders after Solona is gone, and find that my initial assessment of him was unfair. I watch him heal the folk who come to the keep for help, and find that he is possessed of great compassion. Nor is he is indifferent to the fate of his fellows; he wishes to help them in some way. But he is afraid—the templars have great power, and he does not know how to fight them.

I can give him the means to do so.

The thought frightens me at first. But the more I consider, the more sensible it seems. Solona knows a mage who is possessed without harm, so I have no need to fear any damage to Anders. Through him, I can continue my existence in this world without being shackled to a body that causes others to look away in revulsion. I can do great good here, bring great justice. And in return, Anders will have my strength added to his own. Together, we will free the mages and end this injustice that has blighted this beautiful world for so long.

It isn’t hard to find him; he has taken to locking himself in his room for most of the day, venturing out only when ordered to do so. He lets me in, hears me out. He is my friend now; I wish to help him, as much as I wish to help myself, and he seems to understand that.

“Thank you,” he says when I am done speaking. “I will…think about what you have said.”

Then one day the templars come, and there is no more time. “Do you have the courage to accept my aid?” I ask him as they close in.

He does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My fondest wish for DA3 is for the Warden to come back and have the chance to kick the ass of every Warden in Amaranthine, starting with whoever took over after her and started letting templars in. I seriously doubt that will happen, but a fangirl can dream.


	3. Afternoon in an Autumn Forest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Justice discovers that he understood the mortal condition far less than he thought he did, with disastrous results.

I thought I knew. I thought I understood.

I thought that the feelings, the emotions, I experienced in Kristoff’s body were the same as those of the mortals around me. I never understood that they were only fading echoes of memory, filtered through a lifeless thing.

I was a fool.

Sensation smashes into me like a falling wall, irresistible and inescapable. Everything, from the cloth against my skin—no, _our_ skin—to the breeze in our hair, to the smell of our own sweat is impossibly sharp and clear and overwhelming. I don’t know how to sort through these feelings; I could spend an hour staring at the woodland around us and barely scrape the surface of the rich color of the leaves, the smell of the earth, the texture of the bark.

Then I see the sword-and-flame crest of the templar’s armor, and the world unravels into memory.

Anders’ memories are nothing like the pale shadows I drew from Kristoff’s rotting brain. They are alive, urgent, visceral, almost as if they are happening to us now instead of over a year ago. He/I/we is in the darkness, in a cell, the smell of moldy hay and fear-sweat sharp in our/his/my nose. I/he/we have no mana, drained by the templar who is grunting and thrusting on top of him/us/me, his breath sour on my/our/his cheek, his gauntleted hands bruising tender flesh.

For the first time, I know pain.

Pain and shame and rage and a thousand other emotions, and it fleetingly occurs to me that Anders had seemed so carefree from the outside, and that if I’d known mortals carried such duality within themselves, perhaps I would never have done this.

But it’s too late now, and this other templar is in front of us, shouting something incoherent. Fear rips along our nerves, resonating between us, growing each time it passes back and forth.

I must make this stop. These memories are foul, and the only way to bring an end to the pain is to bring justice to the templar.

I tear into him, and I am strong now, stronger alive than I ever was within the rancid, dead body. His sword pierces our chest, but I ignore it; it will take a great deal more than that to harm me now. His cohorts—templar and Warden alike—surge around us, as if eager for the vengeance we will bring down upon them.

I take them apart in a wash of blood. But the pain does not stop.

This…is not right. They have paid with their lives. Surely these memories should fade, should become less urgent. Frantic, I claw at them, ripping and shredding, even biting, with increasing desperation. It’s too much—this must end…

Why won’t it end?

I stop when there is nothing left but gristle and bone, and shreds of meat caught in our teeth. I feel Anders’ horror at what we have done, and again it resonates between us, building with each iteration. We stumble away from the carnage, stopping only to vomit, bringing up shapeless bits of meat. The sting of bile is sharp in our throat, the unpleasant rawness of the sensation frightening to me. Everything is huge and terrible and overwhelming, and this fear begins to echo and re-echo between us as well, accreting each time it is passed back and forth.

“No,” Anders is muttering as we break into a trot, then a blind run. Branches scratch our skin, tear our clothes, all of it one more layer of incomprehensible sensation. “No, please, stop, stop, stop…”

But they deserved what happened, didn’t they? The templars for their crimes against mages, the Wardens for their betrayal. Hasn’t justice been served? Isn’t this what we wanted? More terrifying and bloody than we had imagined, perhaps, but…

Anders’ horror washes over me like a tide of acid. He wanted to be safe, wanted other mages to be safe, not this slaughter. Not this lack of control, this fear, this thing we have become.

I flinch back, frightened again. I don’t know how to control this, how to keep these feelings from overwhelming me. Everything is new and confusing and terrifying, and yet again these emotions begin to resonate between us, building…

At some point, I become aware that we are lying on our side, cheek pressed against the detritus of the forest floor, our fingers tangled in our hair. We are keening inarticulately through a throat already gone raw from screaming.

“Stop. Please, stop!” Anders begs. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

He blames himself, for reasons I do not understand. But I know now that Anders blames himself for many things.

“Pleasant thoughts,” he whispers, to himself, to me. “Calm thoughts. Sitting in front of the fire at the Vigil. Petting Ser Pounce-a-Lot. Playing cards with Nathaniel and Solona.”

I see the images in his mind, lose myself in them briefly, until the mention of Solona. I have memories of her, too; I reach for them, for that vague, warm, pleasant feeling she inspired in me.

But this, too, is changed by a living body. One more thing I had misunderstood, mistaking the reactions of a corpse for the condition of the someone with a beating heart. That was only a shadow, a whisper of this heat, this hard, heavy urgency.

“No,” Anders moans, fingernails digging into the skin of our face, trying to use pain as a distraction. “Please! Just—stop thinking!”

I don’t know how, but I try. I focus our eyes on an insect crawling over a leaf, concentrating on how the late sun gleams off its carapace, how each jointed little leg moves in harmony with the others. Eventually, our heartbeat slows, our breathing evens out. Everything still feels raw and painfully intense, but it is manageable at the moment, even if just barely.

The sun is setting when Anders pulls us to our feet and stumbles on through the darkening forest. I let him do as he will without protest. He knows how to cope with this existence as a living mortal, and I do not. Not yet.

Right now, I am not entirely sure I want to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I have mentioned elsewhere, back at the beginning of the year I was extremely excited about the upcoming release of Dragon Age 2 in general. I was less excited that, of the potential characters to bring back from Awakening, they'd chosen Anders instead of Nathaniel. Not that I didn't like the character, but I freaking loved Nathaniel. That angst! That voice! The way he'd randomly yell out an offer of mercy in the middle of battle!
> 
> (Also, I hated Merrill in DAO, so I was pretty annoyed at their choice of returning characters by that point.)
> 
> Then they announced the LIs and posted the short stories, including the one by Jennifer Hepler that this chapter references. My reactions (after I quit bemoaning the fact that Varric hadn't made the cut):
> 
> Merrill: Hey, she seems pretty cool after all! I guess she's not the humorless bitch she seemed like in DAO. Awesome!
> 
> Fenris: Meh. I'll wait for the game to pass judgment.
> 
> Isabela: Yeah, that's pretty much exactly what I expected.
> 
> Anders: HOLY FUCKING GODS THESE PEOPLE ARE GENIUSES!
> 
> (Followed by: My Wardens will come back and kill every one of you! Er, I mean, the ones that might have survived. If there are any.)


	4. Shadow Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life after merging with Anders isn't quite what Justice expected.

I come to exist a half-step removed from reality. Anders has lived with these sensations and emotions from birth; he understands how to control them, how to function without turning into a thing that screams or shudders or laughs at the slightest provocation. Right now, we are in great danger—the Wardens will surely be hunting us as well as the Chantry—so I allow him to remain in control of our shared being. Later, once it is safe, we will attempt the merged life we had planned, and I will learn to master these overwhelming sensations as well.

At least, that is what I assume will happen.

Anders sells his Warden uniform at the first opportunity, along with his earring, an amulet or two, and anything else that will fetch a bit of coin. We take a ship across the Waking Sea to a city called Kirkwall. Anders has chosen this destination for two reasons: one, there is no Grey Warden presence, and two, the Circle here has a reputation for being particularly cruel and oppressive. In this city of chains, perhaps we can remain free and further our just cause.

Anders sets to work as soon as we disembark. Before a week is out, he has made contact with other mages and is helping to build an underground movement.

There is other work to be done as well. Ferelden refugees choke the city, having fled here from the Blight and never returned to their native lands. Many of them are sick or starving or injured, too poor to afford whatever passes for healing in this place. Anders’ compassion will not let him turn away from them, even though the clinic he sets up risks drawing unwanted attention.

I am not afraid of templars. Let them come—we will destroy them.

Anders fears them. Even worse, he fears _us_ , fears that we will repeat the scene of fury and madness and terror in the woods. And even though we have never harmed an innocent, he worries that we will do so now. I do not understand why he thinks this way, but it makes me uneasy. His fears is so strong…perhaps he is right? Perhaps we are a danger to innocents?

I do not understand how this could be, and so I watch from behind his eyes, afraid now myself.

Then a letter comes that changes everything. The note is from Karl Thekla, a mage Anders knew in the Ferelden Circle. Anders’ memories of this man are laced with sweat and desire, with bodies pushing hastily against each other, with brief, bright flowers of ecstasy that bloom and are gone.

Anders has tried not to think of sex, since that day in the forest. Long, exhausting days of work, complete with too much stress and too little food, has helped greatly in this endeavor. So his memories fascinate me; I compare them with the memories I still retain from Kristoff.

Anders wishes I would stop; I am distracting him from planning how to help Karl.

Then new faces come into the clinic. Refugees, perhaps, but these are armed, and look healthy and well-fed compared to those who normally come here. Anders panics, afraid that the Wardens have found us, and for the first time since arriving in Kirkwall, I slip closer to the surface. I am ready to fight for our life if need be, whether Anders wishes me to or not.

It is a false alarm; these people are not dangerous. At least, not to us. Anders thinks they may even aid us, as one of them is a mage, and because we have something they need.

I do not spare them much attention. My hidden life does not allow me to have friends; it is a bitter irony, that I had more acceptance as a shambling, rotting corpse. But when we go to the Chantry, and see that Karl has been made Tranquil, and that templars have used him to get to us…

It is not to be borne.

The rage is as huge and painful as I remember it; I’ve not had the chance to learn control, bottled up inside as I’ve been. The templars die, but it is not only my hand that strikes them down. Our new allies fight beside us—and, despite Anders’ fears, we do not harm them. I know the difference between an enemy and a friend, do I not?

Karl is beyond all saving. Those who destroyed him are dead…but once again, the victory seems to do little to lessen the pain. It would be worse if they still lived, of course, if there had been no justice at all, but still it is not as satisfying as it should be. Perhaps this is because of Anders’ grief, his misery as he looks into Karl’s blank eyes and remembers the gentle, laughing man who kissed him and called him beautiful.

There is another problem, however. We have been found out. Anders is certain that something terrible will happen, that our new allies will turn on us, try to destroy us as an abomination. Insultingly, he even calls me a demon of Vengeance when he tries to explain our existence to this other mage, this Hawke.

Hawke is understanding, however. Sympathetic even. Not at all horrified, even though his brother calls us a monster. Hawke invites us to his home, offers us companionship and wine. Anders declines the drink, blaming me, and I suppose it is not entirely a lie. The truth is that we both fear what might happen should alcohol cause us to lose control.

Fear has become our Circle; anxiety our templar. We have caged ourselves with an efficiency any Knight-Commander would envy.

The fear is less sharp with Hawke, though. He is kind and patient, and his smile reminds me unexpectedly of Solona.

And, oddly, we learn that there is a reason for this, that he is Solona’s cousin. I do not entirely understand mortal kinships, but I comprehend that there is a tie between them even though they have never met. Hawke has lived his entire life an apostate, free and untainted by the Circle. Anders envies him that, but the envy is a small thing compared to the realization that perhaps we are not as alone as we believed we were.

For the first time since merging with Anders, I find myself paying attention to another mortal, and wondering if we might someday be friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a feeling that a large part of Justice and Anders' problems come from having different basic assumptions about how things were going to work after they merged. If Anders figured he was going to be walking around in control 24-7, then Justice's freakout would have been even more terrifying to him. As for Justice, did he assume it was going to be more of a sharing thing? Obviously, I suspect the answer is yes, in which case they really should have talked it over beforehand. But people in real life make that mistake all the time, assuming that the other person is starting from the same set of assumptions they are, and not realizing otherwise until it's too late.
> 
> I giggled over the idea of Anders telling Justice to stop distracting him. This is how I amuse myself.


	5. Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders fantasizes about Reyn. Justice is along for the sexy ride.

We are spending more and more time with Reyn Hawke. He is trying to earn money for some reason, but I do not concern myself with such details. He offers Anders part of the pay from every job as a way of funding the clinic. Anders accepts, both for practical reasons and because he has been lonely for the company of other mortals.

Reyn is present even when he is not with us; Anders thinks of him often. Soon his red hair and quick smile invade Anders’ dreams. Anders wakes from them aching and hard with want. At first, he rolls over on the tiny cot that is our bed and tries not to think, tries not to desire. I do not understand why he does this, for his memories tell me this is a normal thing, and I do not know why it should be different now.

Mortal desire is not some pale, flimsy thing that can be easily brushed aside, however. The pressure builds steadily, from idle thoughts and nightly dreams, from casual smiles and flirtatious remarks.

One night, Anders wakes from a particularly detailed dream. I do not sleep; rather I am…dormant, one might say, for periods of times, when I curl up into myself and feel even Anders at a step removed. So I see the dream as soon as he wakes, or at least catch his fading memory of it.

It is a warm night in Kirkwall, the weather so different from cold Ferelden, and in the airless clinic we are naked, the thin sheet thrown back. We are stiff and hot, engorged flesh sensitive to the slightest breeze. Need pounds through our blood: unyielding, desperate. Anders’ hand—our hand, under his control—slips down over the taut skin of our stomach, hesitates—then closes tight around our shaft.

Yes. This.

The memories I’ve gleaned from him cannot compare to this immediacy. The intensity of it is overwhelming, frightening, so I hang back as much as I can bear: watching, feeling, experiencing. His hand strokes up, tugging deliciously, before running the thumb across the slit, gathering the pre-come leaking out. It slicks us, hand drifting back down, and he lets out a helpless moan. Images flit through his mind before settling on a fantasy of Reyn on his knees in front of us, green eyes gleaming wickedly as he strokes our member.

Anders finds a rhythm, arching his back, hand forming a tight tunnel around our length. In his mind, the vision shifts, Reyn leaning in and sliding those beautiful lips around us, wet and warm and—

—And it is too much: too much need, too much time, too much sensation. Our body arches, tightening, everything cresting in a white blaze of pleasure that annihilates all thought for a timeless moment, our seed spilling down over our fingers…

I drift, stunned, unprepared by memory for this exquisite feeling. Did I once wonder why mortals seek this pleasure out with such single-minded intensity? I wonder no longer.

Gradually, our breathing begins to even out. Anders lets our hand fall to rest on our hip…and then unexpectedly rolls onto our side, curling up like a hurt child. Breath hitches, and the heat of tears is on our face.

Why? Was it not pleasurable? Was it not good? What is there of sorrow in this?

But Anders weeps nonetheless, broken-hearted. I try to comfort him, try not to let his distress infect me even as I strive to understand what has hurt him so.

It is because this is all there will ever be again; that much I gather. As enjoyable as this was, apparently it is nothing compared to the pleasure of another’s company. That shocks me, makes me wonder how mortals can bear such sensation, if this is indeed the case.

I do not know how to answer this. I am the cause of Anders’ loneliness; I understand this all too well. And if it has troubled him, he has before managed to put it aside in the face of our larger goal.

Tonight, though, has brought everything home to him. He feels it in his gut, now, that we will never be touched by any other hand. There is great loneliness in that thought…and more, something I do not yet quite comprehend, something Anders keeps even from himself.

So together, we sorrow. I whisper to him that I am with him, that he is not alone. I love him, as I must love a part of myself.

I have yet to learn that sometimes, it is themselves mortals hate above all else.


	6. Evolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Hawke nearly dies in the Deep Roads, Anders must admit that he loves his fellow apostate. Justice is smug, until a journey into the Fade forces him into an admission of his own.

Things shift after the Deep Roads.

Anders ceases his pointless attempts to convince himself that he does not love Reyn. Even so, I do not understand why he has no hope that our now-nightly fantasies could become reality. Why does he not simply ask?

Anders is horrified. _I can’t do that!_

This clearly is not the case. I have a wide assortment of memories to pick from to prove my point. _“So, Leorah, any services I can provide in exchange for a few potions?…Eadric, I got the key to the storerooms, and it’s so lonely working in there by myself…Nice robes, Niall—how fast can you lift them up?…Neria, I just learned this interesting grease spell…”_

 _Stop that_. I have annoyed him. _This is different. I’m different. Reyn is different._

 _Most mortals are different from one another._

Anders sighs, resigned to our discussion. _People don’t fall in love with abominations. Reyn knows better than to get involved with me._

 _But…the things he says…I do not understand mortal courtship, but from your reactions, I thought he was…flirting? Is that the correct term?_

 _He flirts with us for the same reason he flirts with Isabela. It’s safe. Meaningless._

 _I do not understand. Does he love Isabela?_

 _No! Not like that, anyway. She’s a woman._

 _…Does that matter?_

 _It does to Reyn._

Yet another thing beyond my comprehension. It took me months to realize that mortals even had more than one gender, let alone distinguish between them. I know from Anders’ memories that the details of sexual relations can be different, depending on the participants, but I don’t understand why that would be a consideration.

 _It just is, for some people. Reyn cares for Isabela, but not…like that._ But there is a tiny whisper of doubt, deeply buried. _I don’t think._

 _Could he not care for us like that, then?_

 _For some other man, perhaps. Not me._

Because of me; Anders has made certain I understand that. Having only memories of mortal love and not the actual experience, I am able to accept it.

Then something altogether unexpected happens. We enter the Fade.

The situation concerns a mage, so I had at least been paying some attention, and so know our task when I find myself in a place shaped by the boy’s dreaming mind. Even so, the transition is so abrupt that it shocks me. For the first time in so long, I take a deep breath and taste the richness of thoughts, of dreams…of home.

I am not truly home, of course. The larger part of me is still trapped on the mortal side of the Veil, just as with the mortals whose dreaming minds come to this place. I don’t know if that is a curse…or a comfort. Would I return here, even if I could? Would I give up all the wonders of the mortal existence, of even the shadow-life that I am forced to live?

I don’t know. And that makes me deeply uneasy.

“Anders,” says a voice, and then stops abruptly.

Anders is deeply buried here; this is—was—is—my home, and my presence, for lack of a better word, is too strong for him to assume control even if both of us wanted him to do so. So for the first time since I left Kristoff’s body, I find myself actually conversing with someone who isn’t Anders.

I turn and find Reyn staring at me. He seems slightly stunned; possibly he has never seen a spirit such as myself. I keep the conversation brief for many reasons, not least of which is that I can already feel the dreaming boy slipping into the grasp of the demons that have gathered around him. But I cannot deny that it is somehow gratifying to be acknowledged and spoken to once again.

I keep a close eye on Reyn throughout, curious about this mortal who has enamored Anders to the point of distraction. A creature calling itself Torpor tries to convince him to sacrifice the boy to it in exchange for power. Reyn does not seem tempted at all, but instead annoyed at the obstacle the demon represents, as he should be.

I quickly come to wish our other companions might be so constant. They succumb to temptation with disappointing ease, siding with demons against us. In the end, Reyn and I must battle for the boy’s sanity and life on our own, and the situation is not entirely unpleasant. Reyn is an excellent mage: focused and quick, wily to the snares of the Fade’s less pleasant inhabitants, and able to guide the dreaming boy in a way that will teach him to avoid such traps in the future. I, of course, am a spirit dedicated to a difficult virtue, more than a match for these weak-willed shades and demons who have chosen the easiest paths. We defeat them handily and free the boy, who will seek his fortune elsewhere.

The dreamer vanishes, and the dream around us begins to slip away into the unformed stuff of the Fade. We are returning to the mortal world. In the instant before waking, Reyn glances back over his shoulder at me…and smiles.

Returned to my shadow existence, I tell myself that the reason his smile haunts me is because it reminds me so much of Solona’s. Yet that explanation does not quite seem to fit. Reyn is not her, and it seems an injustice to him to say that she is the cause of these feelings instead.

I feel…I do not know, exactly. Why must this part of mortal existence be so frustrating? Everything was so clear and pure when I lived in the Fade.

This is a world full of beauty. The lyrium ring Solona gave me was beautiful, and I regret its loss on the forest floor in Amaranthine. No doubt it will lie there forever amidst the fallen leaves, along with Kristoff’s decaying bones.

Reyn is also beautiful, with his dedication, and his compassion, and perhaps even his ridiculous sense of humor that I do not at all understand.

I would rather have him than my lost ring. I would rather have him than Solona.

Something has shifted within me, as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had way more fun than I should have tallying a possible list of Anders' past indiscretions, while limiting myself to mages actually mentioned in DAO (if you include the alternate Surana Warden).
> 
> Poor Justice. This is all just so bizarrely outside his realm of experience. And of course he's stuck with someone who used to be the male version of Isabela, which probably just makes it all that much worse.
> 
> Sigh. My first play through, I was SO sure when I entered the Fade that, yay, Hawke was FINALLY going to have to opportunity to have an actual conversation with Justice. Oh, Bioware/EA, why do you hate poor Justice so?!
> 
> I do really like the idea that Justice maybe doesn't want to go back to the Fade, now that he's experienced the mortal world.
> 
> I also ought to mention that I see Justice as being a bit vain. Mainly I suppose this comes from his reaction to Ella, where he's all: "OMFG, bitch, I'm not a DEMON, I'm mother-fucking JUSTICE!" He just seemed so damned offended that it permanently colored my idea of his self-image as being way better than most denizens of the Fade.


	7. Desire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When a desire demon tries to corrupt Hawke, Justice takes matters into his own hands.

Reyn will never be mine, not in the way I wish. People do not, as Anders says, fall in love with abominations. Or even with Fade spirits. So I do not try to engage him in conversation, or let him know that I watch him whenever we are together. I try not to let Anders know, even; our emotions in this bleed together anyway, so it is often not easy to tell what is from him, what from me.

We spend much time with Reyn, and he helps us with our work with the mage underground, when Anders will allow it. Sometimes, I think he sees more clearly than Anders; he stops us from committing a grave injustice against an innocent mage. Anders is so certain that she is tainted by the templars in some way, that she deserves punishment, that I do not question him until Reyn demands we stop. I realize then that I trust Reyn, trust his judgment, and this adds yet another layer of complexity to feelings I barely understand.

It does not seem at all fair. Four years in the mortal world, in a mortal body, and yet I still struggle with understanding.

None of this matters, I tell myself. I should not waste my time thinking about him, when there is no chance that there will ever be anything between us. I practice ignoring the other mortals around us, disregarding their interactions with him, so that I will have no cause for pain when—as Anders thinks will inevitably happen—we find him in the embrace of another.

But I soon find a situation that is less easy to dismiss.

I am a spirit, existing amidst a host of mortals. There are others of my kind from the Fade, whom we encounter on occasion. Demons, Anders calls them, and I see no reason to argue, for they are weak and selfish things, not like me at all. For the most part, I ignore them as not worthy of my time and attention.

Then one attempts to take Reyn from us.

It is what Anders identifies as a desire demon, and it moves toward Reyn, disregarding the others with us. All of its power is bent on him, and in a sudden flash of horror I realize that we could lose him to this creature.

No. I will not allow this.

In a flash of blue fire, I am in control. As I close in on the demon, it realizes its mistake, tries to apologize, even. I feel a fierce surge of satisfaction at its fear, its acknowledgment that I am stronger, that Reyn is mine, and not to be taken away. I drive the lesson home by destroying its connection to this world, while Reyn and the other mortals deal with its minions.

My actions frighten Anders. I pushed him too far down in my haste to intervene; he has no memory, only a blank place where I fought the demon, and at first he thinks I have run mad and slaughtered everyone.

Insults upon insults. I will not listen to this foolishness from him. I go dormant, and leave Anders to Reyn’s care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Justice is getting tired of your shit, Anders. ;)


	8. A Rainy Night in Hightown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Justice's take on Hawke and Anders sleeping together,

Reyn loves us.

No. Reyn loves Anders. But at the moment, that feels like miracle enough.

I open our eyes cautiously. Anders is deeply asleep, so I have no fear of waking him. Reyn is asleep as well, which is the only reason I would even think to risk this fragile, new thing between them.

He lies curled against our side, one arm flung across loosely across our chest. The feel of his bare skin against ours is achingly good, beyond anything I could have imagined. The whole night has been like this, one revelation after another, from the warmth of mutual affection to the searing heat of those exquisite moments of climax, bodies locked in ecstasy bordering on a sort of madness. I understand now why Anders wept that night in the clinic, why he grieved so fiercely for this closeness.

And it was all pleasure and love and joy, with nothing of pain or wrongness, untainted even by the fear of being punished for rule-breaking that Anders has always suffered under. I cannot help but recall his memories of being raped by the templars in that horrible cell, and it angers and confuses me that anyone would so pervert a thing of such beauty.

But that is a thought for another time; it has no place here. I watch Reyn sleep for a while. He seems so vulnerable, so fragile like this. His eyes shift beneath the thin protection of lids as he dreams, and I find myself hoping that he envisions something pleasant. Bringing justice and freedom to the oppressed, perhaps.

I regret, more keenly than ever, that I must stay hidden. Anders believes that, should Reyn realize I am more than an uninterested third party to their coupling, he will slay us like any other abomination. The idea is beyond bearing, so I tuck it away where it can remain unexamined, for fear of the pain it will cause if I look at it too closely. Like so many other things, this is a skill I have learned from Anders.

Still, I am glad for this. Anders is happier than I have ever known him to be. I love Anders; he is my other self, but I do wish for him to be happy for his own sake as well. I will not pretend that I do not benefit from it, however. Joy resonates between us as easily as fear, and pleasure as acutely as pain.

I lie there, drifting and silent, simply existing. After a time, though, I hear Reyn’s breathing change, and I close our eyes and slip back beneath the surface. I feel him shift against us; it wakes Anders, who is unused to sharing a bed with anyone. With nothing save the light of the dying fire for illumination, his human eyes perceive Reyn only as a dark shape beside us. Even that sight brings up a sharp jolt of joy that I can feel, as close to the surface as I am. Anders doesn’t notice me, however, too distracted by the stiff length pressed against his stomach.

Reyn’s fingers touch our face, sweeping the ragged ends of our hair back. I try to stay small and still, not wanting to distract Anders, not wanting to do anything that would end this moment. Anders kisses Reyn; his lips are soft and hungry against ours, and his mouth tastes wonderfully of lyrium and magic. That is one of the intoxicating things about being so close: I can feel the magic flowing in him, a soft song that forms a strange harmony with the lyrium soaked into his blood and flesh. It is enchanting, almost like my old ring, but warmer, richer.

I watch and feel, lost in the tide of Anders’ emotions and sensations. But the sharp spike of satisfaction when Reyn moans in pleasure does not belong only to Anders. Reyn is ours; we are the only ones allowed to do this, who he has ever allowed to do this.

“What would you like?” Anders asks, lying on our side face-to-face with Reyn, bodies rubbing together.

I would like to lick the singing lyrium potion off of Reyn’s skin, all the while hearing his magic flare along with his moans. But Anders isn’t asking me, and isn’t likely to. He wouldn’t let me help with our nightly fantasies, either, saying I was a distraction and didn’t know what I was talking about, anyway.

He thinks that Reyn will ask to take us this time, but instead the other mage shifts to his knees and moves to grasp the bedposts, one in each hand, his back to us and his legs spread slightly. He casts a glance back over his shoulder that Anders thinks of as “wicked,” although that makes no sense whatsoever in this context. All of Anders’ attention is riveted on Reyn, and he doesn’t notice my confusion.

His hands—our hands—drift across soft, supple skin, marked here and there by scars from before Reyn met us. He is no healer, not like Anders, who traces every scar with his lips and tongue, and is rewarded with shivers and low moans.

I watch and feel, enthralled as hearts race faster and breathing quickens. Anders lets the anticipation build until I writhe under his skin and Reyn begs in a cracked voice, before taking him again. The pleasure shocks me slightly less than the first time, but it still draws me helplessly nearer the surface of our shared being. Anders doesn’t seem to notice me, too caught up in the emotions and physical sensations that resonate between us—and, I realize, in a different way between us and Reyn, the three of us enmeshed together in a web of driving ecstasy.

There is nothing that has prepared me for this immediacy, this strange connection. Parts of it are new for Anders as well: love has invested the act with new layers of meaning and pleasure, emotion and sensation hopelessly tangled in the messy, beautiful way of mortals. The newness gives everything a raw edge, and in flash of comprehension, I suddenly understand that Reyn has the power to hurt Anders’ heart in a way that nothing else ever has.

There are things worth striving for, even if victory is not ensured. I first understood this in the Fade, when I beheld the injustices committed against the citizens of the Blackmarsh in the Fade, and realized that justice was a virtue worth pursuing. I understood it again when I prompted Anders to take up the cause of mage freedom. And I understand it now, but in a different way.

This world is indeed a strange one.

After, Reyn slumps back in our arms, happy and content. Anders laughs and nuzzles his hair, drunk on love and hope. We stretch out to sleep again, bodies intertwined, and as his leaf-green eyes slip closed, Reyn murmurs, “I love you.”

And I pretend that it is me to whom he speaks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to admit, I giggled over the idea of Justice offering suggestions for masturbation fantasies. Poor Anders.
> 
> We don't really know much about spirits--if or how new ones pop into being, or when or how they decide what virtue or vice they aspire to. Was Justice kicking it around the Fade for a few thousand years, or did the plight of the Blackmarsh villagers inspire him to action?


	9. Fragmented

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the years roll by, Justice grows more dissatisfied with his shadow life.

Things are better, for a while.

Anders is happy. He has found acceptance, love, even a family, all things that he has never known before. Reyn makes him smile, sometimes with the jokes that I find so puzzling, and sometimes with his mere presence. Leandra fusses over him in a way that he accepts and even welcomes, although it is a distraction and an annoyance to me.

Anders says it is because I do not know what it is to have a family, having come into being without a mother. He wonders if the Maker’s disappointment in his first children has made me sad. I tell him I have never met this Maker of his, and would not care to, if he is so poor as to grow angry at creatures that are what he made them. Anders says I have been listening too much to Reyn, and will soon be a heathen as well, but I have never met these Creators, either.

It cannot last, of course. Anders’ flashes of moodiness are not always predictable even by me, and they seem even darker now that they are so surrounded by light. He fears that Reyn will discover too much, that he will find all the damaged, scarred pieces that Anders tries to hide, and turn away in disgust. He fears for us as well, that if Reyn learns the truth about our shared being, he will slay us as an abomination. Since we are living in Reyn’s house, I must therefore be cautious, always, not to give myself away.

I tell myself that I can abide this for Anders’ sake. What is harder to abide is Anders’ fear that we will somehow lose control and hurt Reyn. He dreams of waking in our bed to find it awash in blood and torn flesh. These dreams hurt us both, frighten us both, but I do not know how to stop them.

We continue our work with the mage underground with new vigor, energized by Reyn’s support. The sudden influx of gold from his accounts helps as well. He has aided us in this way before, of course, but, for reasons I do not understand, we now have the entire Amell-Hawke fortune to draw upon without even having to ask. Anders uses the money for bribes. I would prefer direct action, but he insists that the mortals we must pay to do the just thing are not deserving of our wrath, the way the templars are. I dislike the very idea that justice can somehow be bought; it seems deeply wrong. Anders says that is simply the way the world works, and it doesn’t really matter if I approve or not.

Leandra helps us work on the manifesto. She has many good suggestions, and Anders comes to trust her. When it comes, her death is hard for us both to accept, even though her killer receives justice. As I learned that day in the forest in Amaranthine, it does not lessen the pain. At least no one else will suffer at the blood mage’s hands; I console myself with that thought, while Reyn cries in Anders’ arms.

I wish that I could speak to him. I wish I could tell him that I am sorry. Leandra was a good woman, and I wish I could have known her. But, as always, I must remain a silent shadow behind Anders’ eyes.

A part of me has always believed that things will change. That Anders will come to accept our shared existence. That we will tentatively take the steps toward something…more. Something like what I once had, as a rotting corpse in Amaranthine. That he will come to think of our body as _ours,_ and not _his_. But as the years roll by, this begins to seem more and more like a fantasy.

I want to be a part of the world again. I want to help with the mage underground, as something more than a voice in Anders’ head or a well of spirit energy for him to tap when he needs to cast spells. I want to look into Reyn’s eyes without Anders between us, and have him acknowledge me.

I want him to scream _my_ name in passion.

Now instead of getting better, everything grows worse.

***

Anders has never been comfortable with my affection for Reyn. He is not jealous, but he fears that I will somehow hurt Reyn—or that he will hurt us. My restlessness worries him, causes him to fight harder for control, his mind becoming an opaque wall between me and the world whenever he can manage it.

No. I will not tolerate this. Bad enough that I have been relegated to nothing more than a shadow behind his eyes, but to not even have that much connection with the world?

This is wrong. This is unjust. I find myself fighting for my very survival against my other half.

Then we run afoul of the darkspawn Corypheus. His song is like that of an Old God; Anders cannot resist the taint in our blood. I try to fight back, but the darkspawn was once a magister, and so skilled in coercing spirits.

I fail.

I am Justice. I am strong, not like these weak demons the magister summoned to fight beside us. It is humiliating to be so controlled. I feel unclean afterward. Violated.

Foolishly, I expect understanding from Anders. Did he not feel thus, at the templars’ hands? But he can only remember that we attacked our companions, attacked _Reyn_ , on Corypheus’ command. And so he blames me as he blames himself, for not being strong enough.

We are weak and broken and useless.

Anders vows he will be strong enough to prevent a second incident. And since I am hurt and ashamed, then I must be overcome as surely as Corypheus. Perhaps he believes that, if he can push me far enough down, neither of us will have to endure these feelings.

Perhaps he is right. In despair, I allow him to do as he will. Locked away in the depths of our mind, with nothing of the outside world able to reach me, I fall dormant, and remain thus for as long as I can.


	10. Dust and Ashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Justice and Anders decide to act, but the consequences aren't quite what they expected.

And so it has all come to this.

We will act.

Even though it fills us with fear.

Things have grown progressively worse for mages in Kirkwall, despite all we can do, despite all Reyn can do. Now word has come that the Knight-Commander has requested the Right of Annulment, and will slaughter every mage in the city. In the face of this, our quarrel diminishes to unimportance.

Justice is a virtue which demands action. It is not a passive thing, like faith, but something which seeks to change the world. So I cannot say that a part of me is glad to be done with manifestos and secret missions. But at the same time, I am saddened. I wonder if this is Anders’ influence, that I can feel so conflicted, so divided, or simply a result of existing in the world. In the Fade, I never felt this way. I had only certainty then.

Now, I struggle to remember what that was like.

For a while, we truly believed that justice might be accomplished through reason. We thought that mortals would open their eyes—would care—if they only understood. It is a bitter thing, to realize how wrong we were. The denizens of this city do not care about anything past their own petty concerns. In the midst of slavers, gangs, and constant violence, they have given up on any lives besides their own. Many of them would walk past their very neighbor being murdered in the streets; how then can mere words make them care about the mages locked out of sight in the Gallows?

Anders is a great mage; I have always believed this. Now he has thought of a way to get their attention. Something so huge that no one can look away. Something that will take the lives of templars and of the Grand Cleric whose inaction has allowed them to destroy the lives of so many. The plan is just.

But it will cost us our existence. We will admit to the act; we will make certain that everyone knows it was us alone, so that Reyn will not be blamed. And for that, they will surely try to slaughter us.

Anders will die. Together, we are strong, much stronger than anything human. Have we not already survived a templar’s sword through our heart? But eventually, they will overwhelm us, and this body will become uninhabitable for a mortal spirt. I will be able to remain longer, most likely, but what then?

I do not know what will happen to Anders when he dies. I only know that I don’t want him to perish, that I still love him despite all the pain we have inflicted on one another. Nor does he wish to die. We want very much to live, to stay with Reyn, to hide from the world and pretend that it will change on its own, without our help.

But justice is hard, and I am no demon, to choose the easy path. Nor is Anders some weak-willed mage; had he been, he would surely have bound himself to demon of desire or rage long before we met. We chose one another, and we chose our path, and we will walk it to the end, no matter how badly we might wish to do otherwise.

For the first time in a long while, we are as one. We do what must be done, starting with gathering the ingredients to make the explosive. We both recall Dworkin and wonder if he still lives. How he would love this!

Dworkin isn’t here, and so we ask Reyn for help. But we must give him some excuse, some reason that will keep him from asking too many questions, that will keep him innocent of our plan. So Anders tells him that he has found a potion to “cure” us, to separate me from him.

He calls me a curse.

And Reyn agrees to help.

I have known since the first that Reyn does not, cannot, love me. And yet I find now that there was nonetheless some tiny seed of hope that I had nourished in secret, hidden even from myself. Grief and despair fall over it like a blight, killing that seed before it can ever sprout and find sunlight, let alone flower.

The painful understanding that I am nothing but a parasite on Anders’ life, that I have never been anything more, gives us the strength to do what must be done. With Sandal’s help, we craft our explosive, and with Reyn’s help, we conceal it in the Chantry.

Our clothing is a ruin, thanks to a High Dragon at the Bone Pit, and so we waste our final morning in some wretched shop. Anders thinks he might as well have something nice to be burned in, and suggests that I will at least look good while lurching about the streets wearing his corpse. I do not find any humor in his joke, and if the truth be told, neither does he.

We return to the clinic, awaiting word from our contacts in the mage underground. Eventually, it comes: Meredith is making her move. She is coming for us.

We will not die like an animal in a trap. We will meet her on the streets of Lowtown: a proud mage and a spirit, free until the last. But when we go to find her, we discover that Reyn is there before us.

This is not what was meant to happen. We had thought to keep Reyn out of it. We’d imagined him cursing our names after he received the news in the estate, but never dreamed that we would have to actually face his condemnation. In this moment, we almost falter.

Reyn will never love me, no matter what we do. That knowledge helps me. For Anders, it is the realization that if we do not succeed today, Reyn will surely be next on Meredith’s list.

Perhaps some day, long after we are ashes and a ghost on the wind, Reyn will find someone who deserves him as we never did. If we can succeed, perhaps the world will not hate them for being as they were made. Perhaps there will be no templars to tear them apart.

I think then that we both finally understand what it is to love completely.

We stand before Meredith and Orsino, and we reject them utterly. Anders is magnificent, filled with strength and conviction, and I am reminded all over again why I sought him out when we were Wardens together in Amaranthine. We are united at last, and when I surge forward to add my strength to his, he doesn’t even flinch at the spill of spirit fire through his skin.

And then we act.

The Chantry is destroyed in a paroxysm of magic and explosive power. Everything plays out as Anders expected: Meredith’s madness, Orsino’s apologetics. But instead of us against the templars, it is Reyn and our other companions who fight that battle.

Reyn defends his fellow mages, angry and burning white-hot in my sight. But he will not want our help; Anders knows this, and so instead of falling in righteous battle, we find ourselves skulking around the edges. When the templars lie dead, Reyn comes to us. Anders is almost glad that the death blow will come from someone we love.

Then Reyn demands to speak with me.

Anders knows what this means; that Reyn cannot bear to kill him, but can kill the monster we have become. Since there seems no way to save Anders this pain, I surge to the surface, and he falls back in despair without so much as an attempt to hold me back.

For the first time since that moment all those years ago in the Fade, I am face-to-face with the man I love. The man I expect to become my executioner.

Anger and despair fill me. I have tried so hard to live in this world, to open eyes, to do what is right, and it has all come to dust and ashes. All of the pain, and the confusion, and the struggle come back to me, and I try to tell myself that it was worth it…but I cannot know that our attempt will truly succeed. I cannot know for certain that we have made a better future for mages, or that we have brought any more justice into the world.

For a moment, I almost hate this world of mortals, which seduced me so completely with its beauty. I wish that I had never left the Fade, that I had never met Anders, that I had never fallen in love with Reyn.

It’s a lie, of course. Despite everything, despite this bleak ending, I cannot truly wish any of that.

Reyn is angry—furious. And he is hurt. Not because of what we have done…but because we did not enlist his help. Because we did not trust him. Beneath the surface, Anders stirs, surprised to hear these words where he expected only condemnation. It does little to soothe my pain, however. No matter what else, Reyn does not—cannot—want me to be a part of Anders, and so I challenge him. I throw what I have always believed to be true into his face, and ask why he would not jump at the chance to be rid of me.

His leaf-green eyes widen for a moment—then narrow. Gauntleted fingers curl into our jacket, crushing the black feathers.

“Why?” he asks. _“Why?_ Because I love you, you infuriating spirit!”

Then he kisses us.

No. He kisses _me_.

And I am undone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Smooch!](http://corbie.deviantart.com/gallery/#/d492ouc)


	11. Completion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After his Best Day Ever, Justice considers the odd turn his existence has taken. Plus sex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: This takes place on Isabela's pirate ship, a couple hours after the end of Chapter 37 of my "Spaces" fic.

When I first came unwillingly through the Veil, I believed that this world was unchanging, solid, compared to the Fade, where things shift so easily at the whims of dreamers and spirits.

I was wrong. This world changes just as swiftly.

I open our eyes cautiously, as I have done so many times before. Reyn sleeps beside us in a narrow bed on board the pirate’s ship, his body between ours and the wall, so that he will not roll over and fall out in the night. One hand is loosely thrown over our waist; the other curls beside his face, and I hear the faint song of the lyrium inlay of the ring he wears. It resonates with the twin ring that he gave to us, forming a soft chorus that is a thousand times more seductive than the ring Solona gave me, not because of the song itself, but because of what it means.

We did not know. We did not understand that Reyn has always considered me a part of what he shares with Anders, that I have always had claim to his heart. Not until he gave us the ring inscribed with all three of our names, and even then I would not have understood, had Anders not made things clear. This ring is not like the one Solona gave me at all, but rather like the worn, gold band that was on Kristoff’s finger when I inadvertently possessed his corpse, and which I returned to Aura the last time I saw her.

I do not fully understand these emotions, although the fact that Anders cannot adequately express them either comforts me somewhat. Mortals confound even themselves, I have learned, so perhaps it is forgivable that a spirit cannot entirely comprehend. Perhaps this is why weaker spirits become demons, out of confusion and fear, or longing for something they cannot understand.

Perhaps it does not matter. I am content. We have brought justice to the templars; we have freed the mages from the Gallows, and perhaps sparked something greater; and we have survived when we did not expect to see another sunrise. I have forgiven Anders his mistakes, and Reyn…

Reyn loves us. I repeat the words to myself, examining them from every angle. He has always loved us, but he did not understand me until now. I blame Anders’ misdirection for this, but without malice. Anders sought only to protect us, because there has ever only been one way the inhabitants of his world have dealt with spirits who want too much.

We should have known that Reyn would never choose that well-trodden path. I think that because he made our cause his own, we did not truly recognize just how determined he is to chart his own course. In that we wronged him greatly, and it grieves me.

But he has forgiven us, and more. He and I…

It is an odd thought, after so long. Strange, too, to recall the things we did together: the taste of lyrium on his sweat-salty skin, his moan of agreement when I whispered to him that he was ours, the heat and tightness of his body.

And now I am no longer quite so content. After so long spent in a mortal body, I should have recalled that some types of satisfaction are shorter-lived than others.

I shift even closer to him, telling myself that the contact of skin against skin will be enough to sate this desire. He murmurs, eyes fluttering…

And I close our eyes quickly, the habit of three years telling me to hide, that I must not be caught watching him sleep. Anders wakes, either disturbed by my emotion or Reyn’s movement, I do not know.

 _“Why are you hiding?”_ I have no answer for him, so he prods me. _“Andraste’s knickerweasels, stop being such a bloody coward.”_

I am not a coward…but I am not sure what is fair. Or which of us Reyn might expect. Or…

 _“Go on!”_

I open our eyes to find Reyn watching us. There is a smile on his mouth, as if the sight gives him pleasure.

“Mmm. Hello, loves,” he murmurs, and I feel a sharp spike of almost ridiculous joy every time he calls us that. “Is Anders asleep?”

I cannot help but be disappointed. “No. I will go.”

“Don’t! Unless that’s what you want.” He touches our face with his fingers, slowly tracing the lines of the bones, along the jaw and down to our throat, our shoulder. “I’m just trying to understand how this works, that’s all.”

“You have only to say which of us you want—“ I begin, but he puts a finger to our lips. Anders slyly suggests that I suck on it, but I ignore him.

“That’s not my decision,” Reyn says, absolutely serious. “That is, there may be an occasion when I really need to talk to one of you face-to-face, as it were, and I’ll ask if I do. But otherwise…that’s between the two of you.”

Anders wishes to speak, so I fall back and let him. “What do you mean?”

Reyn doesn’t seem at all disturbed by our shifting back and forth, and we both take encouragement from that. “If you need a third party to help work things out, then yes, by all means, please ask me. And I imagine that, if we’re in the middle of the Denerim marketplace, it might be a good idea for Justice to keep quiet so that we don’t attract too much attention. But its your body and your lives; it’s not my place to decide who gets to be, er, ‘on top,’ so to speak.”

Emotion grips us, resonating between, so that our throat closes with it. “I know Justice was a bit overbearing with the whole ‘ours,’ bit,” Anders says past the obstruction. I let him know that I was not overbearing at all, but he brushes me aside. “It’s a spirit thing. They tend to be…I was going to say ‘possessive,’ but that has horrible connotations in this case.’”

“It is not the same thing at all,” I object, pushed past endurance. “I love Anders, and I love you, but it is not the same in any way. I am not to blame if your mortal language is inadequate.”

Reyn tries to cover his mouth with his hand, and I realize that he is laughing at us. I do not understand his humor at the best of times, and certainly there is nothing amusing about what I have just said.

“You’re such a prick,” Anders tells Reyn, but he’s laughing too.

Mortals.

“But,” Anders goes on, containing his mirth, “he was just as serious when he said that we’re yours.”

Reyn sobers quickly. “Sweetheart—“

“Let me finish. When…when I said I would drown us all in blood for you, I meant it. But it’s more than that. Justice trusts you. _I_ trust you. We’ve both failed so miserably, but you…if you told us to do anything, anything at all, we’d do it in a heartbeat.”

Reyn gathers us wordlessly to him, his arms strong around us, his long hair a fiery curtain that blocks out the rest of the world. “I just want you to be _you,”_ he says. “That’s all. No more—and by the gods, _no less._ I love you, both of you, and I don’t want you to waste your time trying to guess what you think I want, or…or anything like that. I want you to work together, and to find a way to be happy and whole, and to let me help with that. That’s all.”

“And to end the injustice of the Circles,” I add, because I have noticed before that mortals have a tendency to lose sight of such things when wrapped in their own concerns.

Anders curses me for having no sense of romance whatsoever. Reyn’s lips curve against our forehead, however. “And that,” he agrees, although I have the feeling he is laughing at me again. But it is a fond laughter, not cruel or mocking, so I do not take much offense.

Indeed, the closeness of our bodies and the feel of his lips against our skin are a powerful distraction. I am uncertain whether to acknowledge our reaction, but Anders prods me again.

 _“Go on.”_

 _But—_

 _“I’ve had three years. You’re allowed a night.”_

I cannot argue with that—nor, truthfully, do I wish to. Reyn’s mouth has found ours, the kiss slow and sensual, his hands outlining our ribs and hips. I return the affection as gently as I can. I am many times stronger than any mortal, and so must be careful not to grab or bite too hard, never enough to break the fragile skin.

It is all both very familiar and yet very strange. How often have I watched and felt this…but it is different to be the one touching and being touched. Anders is close to the surface, watching avidly, sharing, doubling every feeling with his own reactions, so that it is all a thing of ecstasy.

Reyn keeps his movements slow and tender, taking his time, even though I can hear urgency in the roughness of his breathing. I can feel the magic in him, thrumming just below the surface. He is powerful, our Reyn, and I want—

But this is one of the ways in which things are strange. The words of intimacy come so easily to Anders, but they feel odd and awkward to me. I have wanted for so long, thinking that I could not have. Now that I know better, it still feels wrong to speak such things aloud, as though I am asking for too much, or for that which is not permitted.

Anders thinks I am being foolish, of course, and reminds me that we have done this before. Not as often as the other, true, but Reyn will hardly find the suggestion shocking.

Reyn stills against us and props himself up on his elbow. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes.” I think about revenging myself on Anders for all the times he has used me as an excuse, and claim that he was distracting me. That would be petty, however, and a poor example to set for this new phase of our life. “There are still things that are not…easy for me.”

He strokes our cheek gently with the backs of his fingers, the gesture somehow encompassing all the tenderness between us, although I do not quite understand how that can even be. “Just tell me what’s wrong. Please, darling. I want to know what’s going through that fascinating mind of yours, even if it’s ‘no, I don’t like this.’ _Especially_ if it’s ‘no, I don’t like this.’”

 _He thinks I am fascinating?_ I should not be so distracted by such a statement, but I am, and it takes Anders to prod me back to the conversation.

“I do like it,” I say, forcefully lest he think I am not truthful. Anders tells me I am scowling, and even Reyn seems a bit taken aback. “That is, I have very much, er, enjoyed our time together. It is only that I am not certain how to say things, and Anders feels that it should be easy, but it is not…not entirely natural to me, so I…”

This is ridiculous. But Reyn only nods. “I got that impression back when we were still in the Gallows,” he says with a gentle smile. “You know that you don’t have to impress me, right? Take whatever time you need, use whatever words you need. I’ve already signed on for the long term. I’m not going anywhere.”

Anders feels the words so keenly that it is hard for me to distinguish joy from pain, like that first kiss of a sharp blade across the skin, before the blood wells or nerves have time to decide what message to send the brain.

“We love you,” I say, and somehow it is easier this time. Then, very quickly: “Will you take us? Me? I know it is not what you prefer, but I would like--”

“Shh.” Reyn lays a finger gently on our lips. “Yes. Of course. If you want something, just ask, darling. No need to justify it to me.”

Anders thinks Reyn has made an awful pun. I think I was not half as annoying when Anders was the one in control, and perhaps he could keep his opinions to himself for the next little while, please.

Reyn’s finger on our lips is tempting, and this time I do take Anders’ previous suggestion and capture it in our mouth. He makes a soft sound and shivers against us, his free hand drifting down to find our length.

This is good. This is wonderful, and I almost forget everything else in the intensity of the touch. But Reyn has not forgotten; he pulls away from us, a smile on his face that is every bit the powerful mage we know him to be. “Lie on your back,” he murmurs, then grabs a pillow and stuffs it under our hips. I dig our fingers into the coverlets, feeling suddenly, unaccountably nervous. As Anders has said, it is not as if we have not done this before with Reyn, and Anders did this with other mortals many times before he knew me, so there is no need for nervousness. And yet I am.

Then Reyn kisses me, us, his hair falling around us in a shimmering curtain, and everything else drops away. I can taste magic and lyrium in his saliva, feel the pulse of mana in his veins, singing a song that is just for Anders and me, and no one else. Reyn is ours, and we are his, and even though neither of the mortals with me can truly comprehend it, the _rightness_ of that feeling makes me moan.

Reyn pulls away and reaches for the familiar bottle of oil. He pours some on his fingers, pauses…then reaches for the beautiful, singing lyrium potion and carefully drips a tiny amount to mix with the oil.

I make a small sound of longing without meaning to do so. Reyn glances at me, and a smile spreads across his mouth, and now I completely understand what Anders meant when he thought it was wicked, because I am utterly at his mercy and he knows it.

His fingers circle our entrance, teasing. “Is this what you want?” he breathes.

“We are yours,” I manage to say aloud, only that, and then he slides his fingers into us, and…

…the lyrium…

…the song…

I am vaguely aware that our fingers have actually torn through the mattress beneath us to close around the strapping underneath, that I am whimpering in a most undignified fashion, and probably a minute away from out right begging.

Reyn’s lips ghost across our skin. “Shh,” he murmurs, teeth lightly grazing one nipple, so that we gasp. Mana pulses under his skin, and then—

Then he enter us, slick with oil and lyrium, and there are no more thoughts, no more fears, nothing but _this_ and _now_ and _yes._

I realize that I am making a noise that is nothing like words: deep and guttural and timed with the movement of Reyn’s hips. Anders shudders just beneath our skin, bathed in reflected pleasure. Reyn gasps; a bead of sweat drips from him onto our skin as he rides us, and I do not understand why that should be arousing, but it is. He catches our face between his hands, stares into our eyes, and I see myself reflected as blue fire in the depths of his gaze.

“Justice,” he whispers, naming me, _seeing_ me, in this most intimate of moments.

It is too much. Our body arches under him, cresting, energy passing out from me and seed from Anders, messy and tangled and so exquisite that it borders on pain.

Reyn moans and arches as well, hips locked against us, his eyes closed and head thrown back, so beautiful and alive that I know I will never regret any of this, nothing that brought us here, and none of the path yet left to walk with him.

We ease apart, then curl into one another, side-by-side. Anders nudges me, and I fall back, happy and content just to watch while Anders plants tiny feather-light kisses on Reyn’s eyelids. Reyn laughs softly, kisses us back, then pulls us against him as he drifts off into sated sleep. Anders follows quickly, leaving only me to watch from beneath half-lowered lids. I am sated and will soon go dormant, but for the moment I linger and think on the three extraordinary mages who have shaped my existence.

When I first came to this side of the Veil, Solona gave me a chance to find a purpose, rather than destroying me as an abomination. Later, Anders gave me the chance to change this world with him, when he agreed to merge with me.

Now, Reyn is giving me a third chance: to go forward and become more than what I have been. To fight for others…and, for the first time, to have someone else fight for me. To love, and to be loved. To find something beyond this shadow life I have known.

I do not think that there has ever been another spirit given the gifts that I have received: of acceptance, of purpose, and of love.

To fail them would be unjust. And if I have done that in the past, then I have learned from my mistakes, and will not do so again. I will honor these gifts, and this life, and this world so full of beauty, some of which now sleeps at my side.

I am no demon. I am Justice. And I am content.

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who stuck it out with me! And double-thanks to everyone who commented, bookmarked, or left kudos. :)


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